


what the dates told us

by less_than_improbable



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Diary, F/M, Feels, Gen, John has a journal, John used to be the lost puppy, Journal, Kid!Lock, M/M, Sherlock takes too long to realize, Unrequited Love, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:24:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/less_than_improbable/pseuds/less_than_improbable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds John's diary on John's wedding day. He realizes something important, but is already too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what the dates told us

**Author's Note:**

> SUPER UNBETA-ED. This was posted on a whim. Originally, I was thinking of John being always a minute too late in the moments which permitted him to confess to his longtime bestfriend, Sherlock. However, I saw this one movie or a literary piece (I honestly don't remember) and saw how it played with dates and numbers and all that. So, this fic was born. I do hope you forgive my mistakes here, and constructive criticism is always appreciated! Oh, and enjoy!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock, or any of the characters. I do not own the storyline, too. Kudos to ACD, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat for Sherlock.

Sherlock pouted at the calendar on his laptop, as if he were hearing it shout the event today. It reminded him of how dreadful today was going to be. He glanced at the wall clock, taking in the little cracks it had and how he could fix it, but went back to remembering what was about to happen today. He deflated on his couch.

 

March 4. Today was John’s wedding.

 

            He tapped at his laptop’s screen impatiently. The flat and the cases he had received from his patrons were entirely boring without John. In fact, _everything_ was boring without John. He shut the laptop on his laptop rather abrasively, kicked the pillows supporting his feet, and marched to John’s room with hopes to find something undeniably interesting in his things. He looked around, scanning for any unusual movement (since John had only moved out the morning before) and heading for the closet. He opened its creaky doors, and smirked as he saw the rugged notebook inside. He picked it up. It had a worn leather covering, yellow-stained pages, varying inks –some had a rich, black ink while the others were thin, blue lines- and a huge ‘Property of John Hamish Watson’ written on its first page. The notebook was probably from about twenty seven or twenty eight years ago, a dear Christmas gift from someone dear (Sherlock whispered “Harry” almost immediately) and was definitely John’s diary. Why did John have to keep a diary when he had a blog? A blog would only take a few minutes while a diary needs hours to finish. It was a big waste of time.

 

He pried it open eagerly, and started fishing through the first few pages.

 

 

_December 25, 1984_

_Hi. My name is John Hamish Watson. I am eight years old. I am in Sherlock’s house because Mum is working. It is Christmas today, and my sister, Harriet Watson (but we like calling her Harry), gave me this notebook. She said that I could become famous because of this. She talked and talked and talked about this little girl named Anne Frank who had a diary, too. I got confused because Harry kept on talking about bombs and airplanes and this little guy named Hitler who gassed juice. Why would Hitler gas juice? And how did he gas juice? Mum says juice is good for me. He—_

Yes, very cute for little John. Sherlock grinned at his success of deducing the notebook. He leafed through a few pages before stopping at an entry mentioning him a couple of times.

 

 

_January 1, 1985_

_Hello. Happy New Year, notebook! Mum still did not arrive today, but all the things that happened today made up for it. After our New Year’s dinner, Mycroft (who was Sherlock’s brother) took Sherlock and me to the small barren field near the playground. No one was there, so Sherlock was happy. Mycroft did some weird things, and then finally he brought out this small rectangular box that made fire. I tried putting my thumb on the top of the box but it wouldn’t light up. I think Mycroft is a wizard!_

_He put the fire on some kind of rope attached to some sticks with a round house on top. Mycroft called them ‘firecrackers’. Then suddenly Sherlock got all excited and was talking quickly to Mycroft, who was nodding and patting his brother’s head. After counting to ten, the firecrackers flew up to the dark sky and exploded into fairy dust! They were very sparkly and look like stars. They were very very colorful! It was beautiful. I looked at Sherlock and I saw how handsome he was. Mum said boys were handsome, so I should call him handsome. Sherlock’s hair is really curly like spaghetti because he doesn’t comb his hair. I like it that way. His fingers were not fat. They were like the bamboo sticks my dad brought home when I was five. But, Sherlock’s fingers liked touching my fingers so I like it too. Sherlock is brilliant and smart and likes science like me and cares about his Mummy and Mycroft even if he calls him fat. Sherlock is a nice person but he just likes saying what he sees so people don’t like him._

_Suddenly I felt my heart beating very fast. It hurt because it was punching my chest! My face was hot like Mum’s boiling pot. I didn’t notice that the firecrackers had finished until Mycroft told us to get up because we were going back. Sherlock was talking to him again in that excited manner and Mycroft was smiling._

\-----

_They were approaching the door when John pulled Sherlock back. Mycroft had heard the sudden halt, and turned around to raise a brow at John. He tried his best to communicate with Mycroft through his eyes for he knew how he could read him like a piece of paper. Mycroft nodded at him, and proceeded to enter the house. It was now Sherlock’s turn to shoot him a puzzled look._

_“Sherlock,” John started to say. “It’s.. umm.. I-It’s my heart, Sherlock. I-It won’t stop beating and it keeps on punching my chest. It hurts.”_

_John, frankly, looked like he was a tomato. Sherlock observed John for a bit, trying to see any hint if John had been playing a prank. His body language was truthful enough. After a few moments, Sherlock laughed. John looked at him, confused._

_“John, you’re just excited.” Sherlock spoke, wiping minuscule tears from his eyes. “It is not physically possible for your heart to punch your chest. Mycroft told me that earlier. It’s nothing but chemical running in your veins.”_

_“But, that’s not-“_

_“Look, John. C’mon. Let’s go back and play with Mini Mycroft.” Sherlock interjected as he held out his hand. John took it hesitantly, though he let himself be pulled into the house._

_No. Sherlock did not understand._

_But, John didn’t, either._

\----

_I was a bit sad because he did not understand. I also did not understand what had happened. But, I became happy because I saw Sherlock smiling at the firecrackers. He was happy. So I am also happy. Good night, notebook, and Happy New Year._

There was a messy doodle of what seemed to be fireworks. Sherlock let out a low chuckle. Typical John. He didn’t know John had noticed so much of him even when they were kids. Sherlock reminisced the memory, almost gaping at the fact that he and Mycroft used to get along. Ah, those were the ancient days.

He moved on to the other entries. Sherlock predicted John was in his school years in this parts because the dates were skipping largely now. They had brief mentions of Sherlock, but he recalled they were busier with experiments and running around like idiots during those days. The next entry with Sherlock deemed interesting had skipped a large time frame for it was twelve years after the New Year one. John’s handwriting was more legible now. In fact, it was disciplined and beautiful.

_April 4, 1997_

_I finally graduated today._

_I visited Mum and told her all about my uni life. I told her about the discipline-filled template of the training I had for the Army. I told her about my new friends, my past girlfriends, my favorite professors, and Sherlock. Too bad she can’t be with me when everything happened, though. Harry refused to visit her, and murmured about accidents and bad memories. I scolded her for saying that. Honestly, I’m a bit worried about Harry. She kept on drinking liquor and spending her money to buy more. I could barely support her vices, let alone her education. I want Harry to be safe and happy with a life that ensures her future. I’m leaving tomorrow for the Army, and I don’t want to leave her alone like this._

_Well, enough about Harry. I’m going to write about my first time being dumped indirectly. My first time having it slapped onto my face. And, because I trust you, notebook, I am going to write it here._

_It honestly hurts._

_I was drinking with Greg, Mike, Bill, Adam and Tyson at the pub. We talked about the different flavors of our drinks, the next date of our next pint, and the beauty of the battlefield. We were all excited to serve, adrenaline coursing through our veins as we imagined ourselves running for our lives. Bill mentioned something about girls digging Army men, so maybe I might chance up a snog when I drop off for a break. Greg dropped the bomb when he announced that he wasn’t entering the army. He preferred chasing the badies in London, and we all supported him. The happy talk went on until after Greg asked me about Sherlock. Of course, I answered honestly._

_\----_

_“Sherlock hasn’t contacted me for four months already,” John said. “In fact, he hasn’t even attended my graduation. He just kept pushing me away, like I was a bloody ball. He always had an excuse whenever I call. He had other appointments, some other lot to attend to. I’m starting to worry, really. He isn’t who he used to be. I know something’s going on, but he doesn’t want to tell me. It’s.. stressful to be his best friend, but it’s also wonderful.”_

_“You’d get to see that stressed face turn into an innocent one in the mornings. He’d be a bit grumpy, but his mechanism is no stronger than a child’s. He likes touching people he’s close to, especially when he’s aware of things already. He has refined tastes, but he cannot keep his bloody flat clean. He loves his violin and his skull, and that would be rather odd to you lot, but you’ll get used to him. His fingers are graceful and light when it touches his violin and experiments. He doesn’t eat or sleep when he doesn’t need to, but it’s a miracle when he does it. He has a dozen purple shirts because those were the only things he allowed Mycroft to buy him. He walks around his flat in a sheet – yes, only a sheet! – and cannot be bothered with clothes. His hair, though not always combed and as curly as hell, is soft and puffy you’d want to caress it again and again. He knows everything, and that’s just fucking brilliant. He’s a genius of sorts, and he’s so brilliant that I can’t see why people wouldn’t want to be near him at all. He’s.. Sherlock. He’s my best friend. He’s great.”_

_John finished, gasping a little for breath when he saw his colleagues looking at him suspiciously. It was as if they were saying ‘You’re such a naïve man’. Greg grinned at him as he took a swig of his beer._

_“You’re in love with him, mate.” Greg said as he brought the bottle to the table._

_“What? Me? In love?” John stared at them incredulously. “For god’s sake, I’m straight!”_

_“Er,” Adam butted in. “Actually, you’re not. I think. I’ve seen the way you look at Sherlock for all these years, John. I know there’s something else.”_

_“What?” John repeated. “I am not in love with my best friend!”_

_Mike chuckled. “You are! You always put him first before anything else. If he ever asks you to come with him just before an exam, you probably would.”_

_“C’mon. You guys are being ridiculous.”_

_“Think about it, John.” Greg rubbed his stubble as he said thoughtfully. “Don’t you get that feeling of wanting to touch him sometimes? Don’t you feel disappointed when you do not get to see him often? Aren’t you the only one who tries and tries to understand him even though he gets into your skin a lot? How many girlfriends have dumped you because of Sherlock?”_

_John stopped as he thought about Greg’s words. He, in his mind, practically agreed to everything he said. But, he wasn’t gay. He knew that fact very well. He loved women, and they will always be John’s preference when it comes to partners. Sherlock was.. Sherlock. He was John’s best friend, so of course, he would be very important to him. But, John couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to touch him, to linger in the feeling of his skin against his fingers. He longed to see Sherlock as often as possible. If everything were up to him, he would hold him close and not let go, and not worry about where he was every minute of the day. He admitted that he often would chase Sherlock around London, abandoning dates and breaking up with wonderful women just to believe that he was feeling the adrenaline rushing inside him with Sherlock. He was very impor-_

_Oh._

**_Oh._ **

_John was rambling about Sherlock. Again._

_He snapped back to his senses and saw everyone grinning at him like a lunatic._

_“Get out of here, man!” Tyson encouraged, pulling John out of his seat and pushing toward the door. “Go, tell him before it is too late.”_

_John stared at them in disbelief. He still couldn’t believe it._

_“Go on!” They shouted, and laughed like those high bastards on the alleyways. John sighed as he turned, finally getting out of the stuffy pub. He walked towards the direction of Sherlock’s flat, where he knew it would be. The rain had just stopped, leaving a cold mist loitering around the street. Most of the people were already in their houses, either watching telly or having dinner. John imagined what it would be like to be someone like that, going home to a sweet wife and wonderful kids, having dinner and watching telly together. He would sing to his children while he sent them to sleep and cuddle with his wife afterwards. It would be perfect. But, there would be no Sherlock in the picture._

_And, that would be.. not good._

_John skimmed through his memories of Sherlock and imagined if Sherlock were to be his lover. They would be running around London, catching all those serial killers for fun. They’d come home at unusual hours of the day, and get little sleep. He’d be forcing Sherlock to eat and sleep, sometimes maybe just staying beside him on the bed. They’d have rows for very shallow reasons and kiss to make up for it. They’d be just John and Sherlock, not John the Father and Sherlock the Detective. And, that was okay. Everything was okay for John. He wouldn’t wish for more._

_Maybe John really was in love with Sherlock._

_Just.. maybe. He’d try._

_As he approached the familiar door, he felt his stomach lurch. What if everything would just come to a naught? What if Sherlock ended up realizing that John wasn’t worth it or maybe deeming him to be just like everyone else and shun himself from him? He didn’t know. There were countless possibilities. But, he’d try._

_John knocked at the brown door twice. He waited for a few moments before knocking again, but there was still no reply. Well, thank god Sherlock gave him the spare key. He put it inside the key hole, turned it, and went inside. The whole place was, as usual, a mess. John found himself smiling at the thought of Sherlock lazing around again, complaining about how stagnant his days were. Then, he heard a moan._

_A rather loud moan._

_It was followed by panting._

_John felt worried. What if Sherlock was sick for all these months and John didn’t even bother to check? What if he ended up dying because of John? When Sherlock got sick, it would hit him really hard, paralyzing him for days. Did he catch the recent colds?_

_He slowly made his way towards the bedroom, taking in the somewhat stuffy atmosphere of the room. He put his hand on the smooth wood of the door, and pushed. What he saw next shocked him to the bone._

_Sherlock was almost naked. His head was thrown back, and his mouth was open. His arms and exposed chest were covered in hickeys and bruises. There was a man crouched down at his crotch, a black-haired man with wonderful complexion, and was probably giving a blowjob._

_Sherlock was having sex._

_It wasn’t long until they noticed John was in the room. The man got up and walked over to John. Sherlock did the same, however, with a guilty expression. The man was a bit stiff, and gave that air of superiority. He grinned at John slyly._

_“Sorry. Was Sherlock loud?” He said. “Nice to meet you. I’m Victor Trevor, Sherlock’s boyfriend.”_

_John felt frozen. His whole body couldn’t move. However, he forced himself to smile at Victor, who was secretly getting on his nerves already. He didn’t know why, but there was this feeling that he couldn’t trust this bloody man._

_“John Watson,” he answered. “Sherlock’s.. friend. Just a friend.” He glanced at Sherlock, who stared back at him with unreadable eyes._

_Victor Trevor snapped in delight. “You’re the one in Sherlock’s photo albums! Mind you, he told me they weren’t important. This boy doesn’t like his past too much.”_

_John felt dejected and unsettled. He knew that he should get out of here as quickly as he can. Sherlock was still staring at him with that look, scanning him from head to toe. “Um.. I-I was just dropping by to say g-goodbye. T-That’s all. Sorry for interrupting your” –He glanced at the debauched Sherlock-“shag.” He chuckled rather awkwardly, before waving goodbye to them and walking out of the flat._

\----

_Victor Trevor was shagging my best friend. He was shagging the only man I ever considered attractive. Sherlock looked utterly debauched at that moment that I just wanted to punch Victor Trevor and break his bloody nose for making him look like that. But, I knew I couldn’t do that because Sherlock was Victor’s, and I had no bloody right to steal him away if Sherlock himself permitted him to own him. I just.. It hurts ‘cause I wasn’t able to even tell him. It hurts because I’m jealous, although I’ll never admit that to anyone. I wasn’t able to at least talk to him or spend time with him after I was shipped off in some place he can never reach._

_It’s kind of funny to see that I was so naïve. I’ve been unconsciously pining for him for all these years, and I just realized it the night before I got deported._

_But, maybe, that was good. Maybe it really was good to at least see Sherlock’s lust-filled face for the last time, and know that it wasn’t mine. To know that I will never have that. To know that I have eight or more years to forget that face._

_Sherlock and I, no matter how much I do for him, will never be together. It’s meant to be that way._

 

Sherlock felt all of John’s feelings magnetizing him, pulling his heart apart and letting itself enter without permission. It’s funny how a piece of paper - John’s pieces of paper- could creep inside his mind and shatter the room labeled ‘John’ in his mind palace. At that time, Sherlock was dealing with cocaine and the only way to get it was to be shagged by Victor Trevor. Victor had an uncanny obsession with Sherlock, so he used this opportunity to get the drugs. When he had finally encountered Scotland Yard’s finest while being high, he remembered Lestrade asking him if John told him. He attacked the question, ridiculed it, and shut Lestrade up. He felt guilty, and he would only ever feel that way because of John. He knew how much John had to put up with because of him. He found himself leafing through the other pages just to brush the rather annoying feeling away. He landed on the last entry and, obviously, it was also filled with Sherlock.

 

 

_March 3, 2007_

_Frankly, the past six months I spent were the best months anyone could ever give to me. I met Sherlock again, and felt the same old adrenaline rushing through my veins as I chased him around London, protecting his back from any kind of threat. I’ve started a blog, too, and most of our adventures are there. Sherlock was great. He had changed a bit, but aside from that, he’s still the brilliant bastard I knew. Our relationship is.. I don’t know. For a brief seven years, I’ve shut out all things about Sherlock. But, for just a second after our meeting in Bart’s, they’ve all come back. I don’t know anymore. Sometimes, I long to snuggle up to him when we’re sitting on the couch, watching Doctor Who. But, sometimes, I want to get away from him. I want to push him away. I don’t know, really. I don’t know. But, I don’t think I can do anything about this anymore. There’s no more chance._

_I have a blog, but I do not want to write this there because I cannot. I don’t want the world to know what goes on inside John Watson’s mind now that Sherlock Holmes is gone. He’s dead._

_My best friend is dead._

_We were having this run-around chase with Jim Moriarty, the consulting criminal, Sherlock’s match. Sherlock kept on plunging deeper and deeper into the enigma that is Jim Moriarty, and he got too far. I couldn’t reach him anymore. All I knew was that hours before his death, Sherlock was panicking inside Bart’s. He was talking to Molly, and I am quite sure that she tapped his back gently. I didn’t want to see Sherlock to break down like that. One by one, Moriarty was killing everything that Sherlock had._

\----

_John, in deep worry, rushed over to Sherlock’s side as the panic started consuming the beautiful features that John once knew. He put his hand lightly on top of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock raised a brow as he looked at their hands._

_John opened his mouth to say “Sherlock, I know this is a stressful situation, but right now, I can’t afford missing this chance again. I’ve waited more than twenty years to tell you this. I don’t want you to die not knowing it. I.. I just love you, you bloody bastard”, but he ended up closing it again due to nervousness. Surprisingly, Sherlock turned his hand, so that now it was entwined with John’s. John felt warm and reassured, enjoying this not-very-important moment. But, the warmth was gone all too soon as Sherlock disengaged their hands and ran out of the door. John sighed to himself. He was, once again, the one left to chase after him._

\----

_The next thing I know was that I was rushing over to Bart’s again. I saw him at the edge of the rooftop, ready to fall any moment. He was gazing down at me, as if I was some minuscule insect worth of his attention. He started talking to me, started telling me that he was a fake, but I didn’t dare believe him. Before I could react, he said goodbye and fell._

_I tried to run and catch him, but I got trampled over by a bicycle. After that, all I could see was Sherlock and blood. Blood was spilling carelessly from his head. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to check him for any vital signs, but there was none. He was dead._

_I cannot tell the world how Sherlock Holmes fell, how he looked like when he fell. I cannot tell the world that I asked for even the smallest of miracles just to have him alive. I cannot tell any of those people who turned their backs on him how the consulting criminal managed to snag his hands on Sherlock’s head and disarm him of any kind of mental weapon. I cannot tell the world that I know he’s alive, because I believe in him. I cannot tell the world how much I love that bloody prick, how I would sacrifice everything just to see him again._

_I cannot tell every single one of those people how stupid Sherlock Holmes was to die with his best friend watching._

_So, I can’t go on with this diary thing now. You’re the vessel of each memory I had with Sherlock. I’m going to stop writing and leave this in our flat. There’s no use. Recalling all of the things we’ve done will only put salt into the wounds. I’m moving out tomorrow, into the flat that I’ve availed after working endlessly at A &E. I’m going start anew there. I’m going to live as a John Watson who has never encountered Sherlock Holmes in his life. I’ve got to move on._

_Goodbye._

Sherlock leafed through the other pages, but it was all blank. However, he saw a small Post-It stuck at the last page of the notebook. He plucked it out gently, and read it.

 

_Open once it’s okay. Once it’s done._

_NOTE: Coincidental. Dates. Sherlock._

_”There is no such thing as accident; it is fate misnamed.”- Napoleon Bonaparte_

The note didn’t make much sense at all. Sherlock went through the other entries to look for some clues, but there was none. He went back to the entries he found interesting, and suddenly, the note finally made sense.

Sherlock held his breath for a really long time. Loads of information buzzed through his mind, abruptly opening the hidden box inside his mind. All he could think about was _John  John John_ and _John’s diary John’s face John’s touch John’s hair John’s jumpers_ and a lot more _John John John._

Finally, his mind boggled down to one simple fact. And, that was enough to make him jump out of his seat and rush towards Arlington Street, clutching a pen and John’s diary.

 

\----

Sherlock Holmes had always laughed to himself whenever he watches people crying at weddings. It was a terrible waste of time, and an utterly ridiculous act. He had seen them cry out of happiness for the couple, out of sorrow for the loss of a beloved, and out of bitterness for the regrets that were once done. But, this time, it wasn’t Sherlock who was watching.

He was the one crying.

He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. All he knew was that he was watching John and Mary ridiculously looking at each other with that lovesick look. The priest moved his hand in a cross-like motion as he blurted out something that Sherlock couldn’t quite put a finger to. Then, John kissed Mary gently, lovingly; it was a kiss which he, himself, wouldn’t be able to taste, to feel. John put his hand on Mary’s cheek, smiling at her and probably whispering sweet nothings to her. The scene was so perfect, so loving, so heartwarming.

It was a scene he wouldn’t be able to reenact with John.

He hid himself amongst the cheering crowd as he wiped the tears from his face. He allowed himself this bit of quiet and resonance because his body was willed by the deficiency he so scorned. He looked at John once more as John waved to his relatives, pulling Mary along with him. He permitted himself to have one glance of the one man who chased him for all this years, the man who held on to him even if he was shut out, the man whom he hurt for three years, and the man who let him go today. Too bad, though. John was done chasing him when Sherlock realized he was going to run back to him after all.

He pulled the frayed notebook and his pen from his pocket. There, he laid the promise of defeat and bittersweet appreciation. After marking the note with his name, he walked towards the only person whom he knew would comply.

“Harry,” he muttered, putting his hand on her shoulder. Harry flinched and turned, surprised by the sudden presence of the man in front of him. Surprisingly, she had quite her drinking habit and was now rebuilding things with her lover. The current state of her hand said she was trying hard.

“Sherlock? I thought you weren’t coming.” She said dryly. Harry was still blaming Sherlock about the fact that Sherlock left her brother in pieces when he vanished three years ago.

“I need you to do me a favor. Please.”

 

\----

John was talking to Mary’s father when Harry approached him. He turned to her with a smile on his face, but was taken aback when he saw her grim expression.

“Harry? Did something happen?” John asked, his eyes automatically landing on Mary. It became a reflex of his to instantly start looking for Mary whenever trouble arises. He sighed in relief when he saw her chatting animatedly to her peers, the warm grin on her face never fading. He turned his attention back to his sister, who now held a rather familiar notebook on her left hand.

“He told me to give this to you.” She handed the notebook to him, and started walking away almost instantly. John wanted to ask who ‘he’ was and why she had this, but seeing the quick retreat of his sister, he decided against it. He opened the notebook which he promised not to open once it was okay, once it was done. John glanced once again at his beloved wife, and decided that it was finally okay. It was finally done. His fingers reached out to the familiar touch of the worn-out leather and the fragile pages.

John read through his memories, chuckling at his ridiculousness and smiling at the remarkable ones. His heart never failed to feel the emotion pouring out from every word he wrote. He felt like a teenager, going through all of those emotional changes and stress. He read the ones with his coincidental code, one that he didn’t stain with fantasies and fiction. He cherished the feeling of having been once in love with his best friend, Sherlock. He loved him so much before, even going through making such sacrifices just to be with him. He still loved him now, but it was now back to what they really were from the start: best friends. And, John could never ask for more.

Whoever ‘he’ was, he must have cracked the code (although, he had a strong feeling that it was Sherlock). He must have driven through the emotional rollercoaster John had ridden on when he experienced all of those things. If it really was Sherlock, John would be embarrassed but would admit to it wholeheartedly. Sherlock Holmes was a wonderful man, and John would never regret falling in love with him.

The last page confirmed all of his thoughts when he saw Sherlock’s handwriting on it.

 

_January 1. April 4. March 3. And, today’s March 4._

_143, but it’s 34._

_I love you, but it’s too late._

_Goodbye, John._

_**SH**_


End file.
